Slipping Through My Fingers
by Fishyicon
Summary: As Lee insists he is leaving, this only reinforces her instinct to laugh harder. It's easier than facing the inevitability and accepting the truth. Once again, unknowingly, Kara's let him slip through her fingers. Lee/Kara - Six of One


**Disclaimer: I am merely playing with the characters, settings and ideas created by Ron Moore and David Eick. I do not own them in any way.**

**My eternal love and gratitude is dedicated to those who reluctantly (but very patiently) waited for me to finish watching the entire series before posting this.**

**Slipping Through My Fingers**

Kara Thrace laughs.

There are countless reasons for this otherwise completely unwarranted reaction, since her situation is far from humorous, Lee's words are far from a teasing joke. One is that he's going to be Tom Zarek's wingman, which is simply too preposterous a concept in regards to Lee. Another chief reason is that he's wearing a suit, tie, pinstripe and all. The biggest seems to be because it is the only reaction she can generate faced with this information without crying, Lords forbid.

She persists to laugh harder, even as he tells her to stow it. It's not so much a laugh as it is a succession of amused chuckles that she vainly attempts to stifle. But it's all she can manage to do right now as Lee speaks to her about his plans for the next while—neither of them can predict how long it will be before she sees him again—and the inevitability hits her full force. She sits casually on the cold floor of her cell as he stands above her, anxiously shifting his weight between his two legs. They way he stammers, fishes for words, is all the information necessary for his old friend to deduce he must be genuinely nervous of her reaction to his news.

He's leaving.

He's leaving her.

Her obstinate side, her true "Starbuck: hot-shot and problem pilot" side reminds her that Lee is not leaving her specifically; simply leaving Galactica, and that if he wants to go, who is she to stop him? Some completely rational, analytical voice in the back of her frakked up mind that she has not even known she possesses until this instant tells Kara that just leaving Galactica means he leaves her consequently, so both facts are somewhat related. Kara decides she dislikes this voice with a passion. She relays to Lee's earlier command and orders the voice to stow it.

But the strongest voice in her mind that speaks of its own volition states no fact, indicates no reasoning. It is the one that controls her fiercest emotions. It simply asks a question: How will she move on through all this insanity and confusion without him here to help her?

Kara answers that voice in all honesty: She's not sure.

She should not care this much. A along time ago, so many lifetimes ago—back when her struggles were different in so many ways, and yet no less painful, no easier to overcome—Kara learned of the repercussions of showing certain emotions. Hostility and superciliousness are of course acceptable most of the time. Sympathy and grief, on the other hand, are out of the question virtually every time. So she taught herself to suppress any expressions and reactions that could make her appear weak. An ability like that, an impassive mask that surfaces on command, becomes of use on many occasions, this one not excluded. But though she conceals those unwanted emotions, she cannot eradicate them entirely. Only toasters can systemize something as natural as feelings. The best Kara can do is regulate how they show on her face. But Lee's words are searing a hole through her heart, and it hurts like nothing she's ever experienced before to contain everything when this may very well be it.

His words are drifting in one ear and out the other. She's only half listening, swimming in the depths of her own feelings. She knows this must stop, and searches for an incentive to surface, a question or statement to answer. Lee provides her with one without being aware.

"Besides, I never really could say no to anything."

"Except me."

At this, Lee's eyes finally meet Kara's, much to her relief. He has become somewhat adept at harbouring his feelings as well, but she's known him too long to be oblivious to the heavy meaning the blues convey subliminally. The look he gives her is meaningful, speaking so many words at once. Kara's vocalized reply hangs in the air, drifting between their gaze, and she can see him carefully consider what words his lips should form next.

The suspended silence lasts far less time than either of them imagines, but after what seems like hours, Lee finally finds the strength to say the bare, unadulterated truth.

"Especially you."

Especially her. He can never say no to her. Is that why everything about them is so frakked up?

Crying is a strange concept to Kara, tears a curious thing. They're a very queer result of poignant sadness, and as the salt water pricks the corners of her eyes, she finds herself wishing fleetingly that she had the toasters' ability to keep all tears and melancholy at bay. The appearance of tears irritates her as much as it does her eyes, and they will corrupt her face with swollen red once they've run their course.

She does everything she can to eliminate the tears beginning to well in her eyes, to halt them before they can do any damage. However, she finds herself asking, why? Lee won't tease her or do anything cruel. He won't try and comfort her, which would be worse than teasing. He's seen her cry before, much to her dismay, and he's been her friend long enough to know when to act and when to withdraw.

All of a sudden she's hanging on to every word Lee says, struggling to retain some part of him here with her, if only in her mind. It's a vain hope, since he'll never be hers; they both tacitly agreed this a long time ago. She's made so many reckless mistakes that have left scars never to vanish. But she should have known better, should have seen the signs. She can't keep a hold on him when he has never been hers to begin. Now he will always just be slipping through her fingers.

He speaks with much more confidence and conviction than before. He's no longer pleading his case, no longer stuttering as he searches for the right words.

"You know, I think I finally understand what you meant about having a destiny. I've got to do this. And the fact that I don't have an explanation for it doesn't . . ." His voice drops off momentarily. She believes she hears it break on the last word, but her mind is like as not playing tricks on her at this point, telling her only what she wants to hear. "Well, it just doesn't seem to matter anymore."

Kara's smiling now. Unshed tears persist to blur her vision, and an ice-cold weight has settled in her chest, constricting her lungs and severing her heartstrings from the rest of her body, but she's smiling. As with the laughter, it's not that she's happy, but that it seems the only acceptable thing to do at the time. The last time she smiled, she reckons she looked something like this. Grinning peacefully, eyes welled with tears. That was just before she lost her grip on consciousness in the maelstrom a couple of days ago. Or rather, a couple of months ago, according to Lee. She still refuses to accept the fact that her Viper exploded, allegedly with her in it, as truth.

She looks at him with that resolute teary smile, and soon Lee's eyes find hers again. She can't quite see his expression through the tears, but she ventures a guess as to the look he would be giving her. That same contained smile he often subjects her. The one that's simple and genuine, and yet holds so much pain, so much longing and hoping, so many ghosts of destroyed wishes. She knows the look well. She's used it on him a fair few times as well. "So say we all," she whispers.

Lee nods and softly echoes the saying, sounding as though he too is finally coming to an acceptance about his departure—if she can't see the tells in his eyes, she can still very expertly detect them in his voice. She can't see his eyes' direct line of vision, but it doesn't waver from what she can perceive, and so she does not sever eye contact with him.

The sting is gone, her feelings more collected and contained now. She considers clearing her eyes of tears, but decides against it. Seeking to hide them once they've appeared is more demeaning than crying in the first place. But she doesn't want her last memory of Lee to be blurry. She wants it sharp, precise, every detail of his smiling face carved into her brain, not to be forgotten like the faces of lost pilots. Blinking hard seems to work well enough, she ascertains.

Bleary-eyed and stiff-jointed, she hoists herself to her feet, hiding the discomfort spawned from remaining stationary so long. She's been avoiding using her legs, because she understands very well that the moment one infuriating thought obstructs her view, whatever object her foot connects with will Her body protests from disuse, and Kara makes a mental note to quit being so indolent in her cell and do something physical—once she's recovered from the anguish of losing her best friend, of course . . . no. She scores the second part of the reminder and searches for a more accurate title for Lee. Best friend. CAG. Brother. Love. Enemy. Partner. Rival. Co-pilot. Pain in the ass. She likes that one.

Practically unthinkingly, she formally extends her hand. "Good luck on your journey, Lee Adama." She takes every precaution available to ensure her hand is not quivering too visibly, her eyes are completely emotionless, her face is completely apathetic. Lee acknowledges nothing as he steps toward her and grasps her hand, so she's certain she's succeeded—

Who is she kidding? Her eyes have always given her away. She can uphold a stern, apathetic guise, but when it matters most, when emotions run highest, her mask fades and those hazel eyes are as easy to read as a children's book. Whether she's widening them in fear, narrowing them in rage, relaxing them in contentment or rolling them at Lee, anyone can immediately interpret what she feels. And Lee knows her so well, she might as well be explaining to him in great detail every conflicting sentiment she's feeling right now.

He looks at her eyes, that same innocent, concealing smile he wears so often with her gracing his lips. Kara imagines those lips pressed against hers as they have before, just one more time, just in the interest of sentimental significance, of having something to hold on to as the rest of her world melts and slips away from her like fine sand through outstretched fingers. She could keep that memory with her, no matter what the implications of such actions might be. Just Lee, there with her one last time, arms around her, mouth moulded with hers as two perfect pieces of a puzzle . . .

She stops herself right there, understanding the ramifications of such fantasies. Understanding those ramifications, but still vehemently wishing they were not there.

"You too, Kara Thrace," he says, a strange quiet unease to his tone, a strange uncomfortable set to his jaw. She doesn't think much of it. Not yet.

In spite of the fact that her eyes betray and hurt her relentlessly, she has found one redeemable quality they possess. Kara is not one to break eye contact easily. And she doesn't want to, she realizes, as she drinks in what may very well be her last sight of Lee, depending on what decisions are made by chief members of the fleet in the near future. So she holds his gaze as he holds hers, never wanting to look at anything else. But all the while she knows that the tension is growing heavier, coiling tighter. An instant before she's certain the burden will become too much and she'll have to look down, Lee's blue eyes leave hers and stare down at their interlocked hands. She follows his gaze and delights in the feel of the bond between them, the contact between their skin. The mere second distends to feel like hours before they must sever this last connection, and yet it could never be long enough.

Lee begins to withdraw in every aspect, she realizes with a pain as poignant and harmful as a blade right through her chest. He clears his throat. He shifts his weight to his other foot. His hand twists faintly—probably even unconsciously—in hers, tactfully trying to deceive her into relinquishing her grip.

She knows she's being selfish, knows she's fooling herself into believing that keeping a hold on his hand can keep him here with her. Sooner or later she's going to have to accept the actuality. He's leaving her.

And she's going to be all alone.

Without warning, Kara withdraws too. Her hand slips away as she murmurs a muted, "Okay." An acceptance. A surrender.

He echoes her with another quiet acquiescence, clasping her hand tightly one more time between both of his. As he steals one last glance at her eyes, she forces a smile. This is the last memory she gets to keep of Lee.

Her "pain in the ass" beams genuinely before he turns and steps with measured, deliberate steps out the door of her cell. That's it. That's all there is. He'll seize the beams, pull the door aside, and the warden will come and close them. He'll walk right out. He won't look back. Her time is up.

She's wasted it. Now he's gone.

His fingers brush the ice cold metal that cages her in.

She barely manages to choke out the word in time. It isn't a hard word. It's just one, tender, familiar syllable. One tender, familiar name. "Lee?"

As she hoped, his fingers freeze. But he doesn't turn around. She knits her eyebrows together and fastens her lips between her teeth to keep her from being such a frakking screw-up again by blurting out any more than she already has. But the damage has been done. She can see him practically shaking his head in disbelief, in disgust. Maybe they could have split easily, gone their separate ways with no lingering discomfort between them. Not anymore.

With that one word, that one syllable, she's made herself more vulnerable than she ever has before. All her defences are gone, all her emotions are out in the open air for him to play with, tease, manipulate as he pleases. That one syllable has said every important thing she's never wanted to tell him. Every important thing he's needed to hear, but that she could never allow him to know. How much she is afraid. How much she needs him, too.

After infinite seconds, he begins to shift. She can see his disbelieving expression, hear his malicious, mocking laughter, and feel it slice through her and penetrate her heart, stopping it cold. Something has caught in her throat, something that won't allow air to pass through. She's not breathing. Perhaps a long time ago he felt as she does now, but their lives change perpetually and there is no way he feels that way anymore.

That is not what happens.

What happens is completely abrupt and baffling in its curiosity. Lee spins and faces her, but his features aren't contorted in the cruel mask she's certain she deserves. He looks empathetic, concerned, desperate. She barely has time to consider this before he closes the gap between the two of them as hurriedly as humanly possible. Her eyes drift closed as he takes her face between his hands and roughly, sweetly, crashes his mouth to hers.

If ever she's doubted his affections afore to this instant, all that doubt washes away, replaced by complete bliss and a sense of security with which she's utterly unfamiliar. She doesn't have the strength to respond very deeply, but Lee doesn't appear to care. He kisses her lips, tracing his way to her cheek, her forehead. A couple stray tears escape the prison of her lashes, but she allows them, too wrapped up in Lee to pay a fraction of her mind to anything else. So little time is ever allotted to them; she has to take advantage of these moments.

But she realizes that once again it is her fault. Screw-up.

Over and over, Kara denies herself this contact with Lee, fear of accusations and humiliation overpowering the longing. But every time she finds herself here in his arms, she wishes nothing were preventing her from remaining there forever. Remaining safe, looked after, loved.

One lone sob wracks her body, and Lee rests his forehead against hers. He stands an inch or two taller than her, so must angle his head accordingly. She feels his warm, familiar breath tickle her nose and reacts by exhaling sharply. A moment later he pulls away slightly, only to warmly run his cheek along hers, reaching with his lips to kiss the edge of her jaw. She sighs in contentment and considers that it's likely more advantageous—to her, at least—that he never discovers the effect he has on her. Every brush of his lips, every touch of his skin on hers, sends a delectable electric current running through her entire body, right down to the tips of her fingers, which currently rest around his neck, fiddling with pieces of his hair. Lee pulls her into his arms suddenly, encompassing her tightly in the embrace she wished for earlier. She coils her own arms farther around his neck to keep him there. She laughs inwardly. If only.

Nose buried in her hair, warm breath washing over her neck, Lee whispers the words she's been waiting for someone—anyone—to voice since her return from the unconventional flight through uncharted stars. "I believe you."

She sighs in contentment and nuzzles her face farther into his shoulder, wondering if it's possible for her to merge them so close with this intense contact that no one would ever dare separate them.

Kara would have easily remained in Lee's arms for the rest of her life if her eyelids hadn't betrayed her moment of peaceful ease and comfort. But as it is, they drift open to gain a clear sight of the prison warden, a black-clad marine, glancing at her watch.

Ice-cold fingers seize Kara's heart and another sob shakes her. Much to her gratitude, Lee's grip on her tightens and the hand around her shoulder begins to soothingly drag slow, deep circles into her tense muscles. His act of compassion almost makes her reconsider what she plans to do next, but desperation and longing are acquiring an unyielding control of her.

Whether it's an uncanny coincidence or one of the advantages of being on the same mental wavelength as Lee (she has faith in the latter), he senses her unease and pulls back slightly, not relinquishing his hold. In fact, he refuses to let her move back any space at all, resting their foreheads together intimately. Kara feels that delightful electric current ignite her nerves once more at the concern he gazes at her with and begins to wonder if the man holding her really does care for her. As he pecks a quick kiss to the corner of her lips, that possibility looks brighter and brighter.

"What's wrong?" he asks of her. The pulsing current of electricity simultaneously magnifies her confidence tenfold and makes her want to curl into a ball and never speak to anyone again.

"Just . . . thank you."

She sees the question in his blue eyes and he doesn't even need to ask. "For what?"

"For . . . believing me." This is all she can manage, though she conveys every other reason in her eyes and knows he can see it.

"Kara, I—"

But she doesn't let him finish. Their precious last seconds are slipping away, water ebbing down a sinuous stream, sands of an hourglass funnelling downward. She closes her eyes, forcefully constricts her hands around his neck and brings their mouths into a strong and fervent collision course. The feeling of their lips together again is marvellous, and she revels in it. He's startled, she can detect that, but slowly he tautens his arms around her shoulders and she gets the impression he doesn't plan to let go anytime soon.

"Really, just shut the frak up, Lee," she mumbles into his mouth with difficulty.

He smiles into her lips. "Gladly." It's quite cruel, but she takes advantage of his open mouth.

Conflicting emotions play around in her head, adding to the light-headedness. She's certain she's never felt so content and euphoric and desperate and fiery all at once, but she can easily shake it off. Her mind is going to explode from overwhelming sentiment any moment now, but she doesn't care. Galactica could implode on itself this instant and wouldn't even flinch. She feels more alive than she has since her landing (and no, the irony is not lost on her, thank you very much). All that matters is that they're both here, both alive—as far as she knows, because the perfection of this moment is planting seeds of doubt in her head—in each other's arms and now that Lee has surmounted the initial shock from her abruptness, he's proceeding to kiss her to within an inch of her life.

They don't have long, and their cognizance of this fact is demonstrated in their actions. Whilst the kiss before was slow, soothing, this time their lips move passionately, hungrily. They have to make the best of the scarce time they have. Kara's fingers crawl back into his hair and tangle themselves there, disregarding the fact that she's messing up its formal look, only concerned with keeping him rooted to this position. Lee's hands have come up to cradle her neck and angle her head. The light-headedness doesn't seem so perplexing anymore. . . .

The marine clears her throat.

"Don't go." The words slip from her mouth before she can stop them, and she greatly regrets her instinctive impulsiveness when he pulls his mouth from hers. It's an absurd thing to say, a ridiculous thing to ask of him. He has to leave. She's been fooling herself in thinking this is not the case, only been postponing the inevitable moment. She frowns and searches his eyes the moment they open, the blues she loves so much hazy and passionate, to see him smiling.

"Going to miss me?" he teases softly.

"You wish," she breathes. Then reconsiders. "Yes."

Her honesty stuns him. She can tell. "I'll miss you too, Kara," he says blatantly.

"Come back, okay?"

She loathes the desolation in her tone, loathes how forlorn and frightened it makes her seem. How weak she must appear in his eyes right now. She hates herself because weak is the one thing Kara Thrace has promised herself never to be. She searches Lee's eyes for some sign of ridicule or disbelief, knowing what thin ice she's been treading on since she extended her hand to him, knowing she's undoubtedly made a false step and cracked the ground at some point. All there is for her to do is wait for her world to crumble, wait for the ice to break. But as he's done countless times in the last few minutes, he refuses to betray her and shows every bit of compassion a person can possess.

"Okay," he mouths, then repeats it a little louder.

He exhales a short chuckle and kisses her forehead tenderly, whispering, "I'll visit whenever I can," against her skin. His promise seeps through the layers of skin and bone, nestling into a safe place in her mind, where she will be certain to remember it. As he retracts his lips and locks his amazing blue eyes with hers again, it's his turn to fish for words. "Just . . . don't get killed, okay?"

She giggles, the unfathomable sound creeping out from her lips. If Lee notices how foreign the laugh is, he chooses not to remark on it. "Obviously you don't realize who you're talking to."

"Oh, I'm sure I do," he tells her, and kisses her once more, engulfing every inch of her in cool, soothing flames. "Lee Adama loves Kara Thrace . . ." he hums into her mouth, reminiscent of that evening on New Caprica, and everything's all right.

Knowing she can't postpone his exit and longer, she disentangles herself from him and takes a step back, smiling and glad that some of Starbuck's armour has materialized again. Otherwise she would be crying, she knows. Lee returns her grin one more time before she tires of the waiting and assists him in his journey to the door with a prompt shove in the right direction. He seems to take the hint and covers the last few steps himself.

"I'm serious, though. Don't die. I already lost you once." There's a hint of sadness in his voice. She wants to hold him again, but restrains herself.

"I'm right here Lee," she intones profoundly, stunned by her tone. Clearing her throat, she adds merrily, "As I will stay for the foreseeable future." They both glance around the dismal and confining cell and share a laugh. Kara finds this freeing, so unlike the strangled, humourless sound she emitted before.

"Take care of yourself, hot-shot."

"Don't get your hopes up, fly-boy," she shoots back, a scowl subduing her previously joyful expression. Sometimes she wants to twist Lee's "compassion" into a rope and strangle him with it.

Without looking back, he snickers and walks out the portal. The black-clad marine woman slides the cell door shut, locks it, and returns to her desk.

Kara stands immobile for a few too many instants, a dazed smile pasted on her features. It takes her a moment to case the daydreaming and return to cruel reality. She shakes her head as if it will clear it from superfluous thoughts. Making good on her mental reminder from earlier and following Lee's instructions as well, she sits on the floor and begins to count off sit-ups. She rhythmically drones the words in her head. _He's leaving . . . He's coming back . . . Leaving . . . Coming back . . ._

And as long as she wasn't overestimating her influence or lying too sincerely, she doesn't even have to worry about dying.

Suddenly, everything seems just a little brighter.

In spite of herself, Kara Thrace laughs.

**FIN**

**Reviews are greatly appreciated. Thank you for reading.**


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